


I want to crush you, sugar

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Asphyxiation, Character Study, Crushing, M/M, Psychopath Tom Riddle, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 06:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19824523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Nothing would ever compare to the thrill of crushing.





	I want to crush you, sugar

It started with walnuts. 

Tom liked to hear them crack beneath his shoe. That satisfying splintering of the shell made him swallow the tightness in his throat.

He didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t really want to know. There was just something so _pleasing_ in hearing that gorgeous crack; and knowing that he had done that. That he had interfered with fate. Started something that without his intervention, would never have happened. 

In that short moment, he played God. 

_And he loved it._

So, it was only natural that he would progress beyond the confines of the inanimate. 

It was only natural that his tastes would stray. That the perversion would spread and the eggs of monsters that lay under his skin, would hatch, and he would become what he was always meant to be. 

Birds were next.

Little blue ones that stared at him with their wide black eyes and died when he crushed their lungs. They were such fragile little things, just air caught on the wind. Sweet little feathers and delicate little bones that made such a _gorgeous_ sound when he pressed their bodies into the concrete. 

And every time they broke Tom could feel his breath catch in his throat. For just the briefest second his heart would skip as though it were a butterfly, and everything would feel so _good_. Simply, something inside him broke with them, and their pretty little deaths were followed by such a power rush.

_Such a fucking power rush._

It was all he could think about for days; just _crushing_ them. Ending them, simply because he _could_. And was that so wrong? The more he thought about it, the less it seemed to be. For, what were animals, but things beneath him? They lacked the necessary… everything, to make them worthy of anything.

It was a decency, of sorts.

To end their mindless existence. 

Though, at first, those little birds were dead.

Then, all of a sudden, they weren’t. 

Suddenly, their tiny insides were pulsing and pulsing and pulsing as he squished them against the ground. Their little cries were so sweet like honey poured into his ear. They sang their empty songs for him as he did the things he did.

They did not love him.

_But Gods are rarely loved._

So, then came the mice. 

And _oh_ , they were _gorgeous_. 

Their bones were so small and so brittle that they snapped with just the tip of his toe. Tom couldn’t help but smile when he felt their ribcages collapse in on themselves; when their bones crunched, and they were dead. 

Because _he_ did that. 

_He killed them._

And it was just so…

_Easy._

And it became more than a power rush, more than the feeling of play God. It was an onslaught of endorphins swirling all around his head, ricocheting off the walls and scratching itself into the corners. It was a high that he was always chasing.

And mice could no longer make him feel so good. 

Then it was cats. 

Cats were different. 

Cats sounded almost like people. Their yowling was words poured into his skull, feelings that he couldn’t feel. It was with cats that he realised something was missing. That there was an empty space inside him, where empathy should have made its bed. And once he knew that it should have been there, the space where it wasn’t, felt enormous; a great stretched thing that was only spreading wider the more that he thought about it. 

But his lack of something made him _special._

_And Tom liked being special_. 

Cats were also the first time…

The first time he…

He…

Felt a jolt. A jar. A jerk. An involuntary shaking in his fingers and a curl of ecstasy that dribbled all the way down his spine. Crushing something so… intelligent was a buzz all by itself and it knocked the air right out of his lungs.

Cats were the first time, Tom let himself drown in the thrill of it. The first time, he let himself lie awake at night and remember the sounds of its howls and its whimpers and its pained breathing. The first time, he couldn’t stop his fingers trailing down between his thighs and his thumb between his teeth as he let himself be overcome with the thrill of simple slaughter. 

That was the night Tom found himself. 

When his heart was pounding twice-pace and his stomach was curling tighter and tighter, and he was just crying out to the thoughts of crushing every little thing he could. 

_And there was no stopping him now._

No stopping him, when finally, he turned to people. 

People were the best. 

People had so many emotions painted on their pretty faces. Some of them let tears stain water paths on their cheeks, others begged for compassion, until he pressed his sole against their mouths, the heel digging into their tongues. They stopped their sobbing then. 

And Tom would smile.

And they would die. 

But human necks were hard to break, and Tom did not like to stamp. There was art in a quick death, no beauty and no satisfaction in seeing life extinguished with such severity. So, he merely pressed. Starting with the toe, right on the edge, before slowly adding the rest of his weight, pushing down and down and down onto their throat.

Humans coughed and choked so pretty. 

But they never lost their thrill. 

And human deaths never failed to leave his throat sticky; oxygen clogging his trachea and all but choking him with them. Their gorgeous way of dying with their heads filled with thoughts left a heat under his skin and an itch in his stomach. 

An itch that only sex seemed to satisfy. 

An ache that just left him wanting _someone_ writhing beneath him. Anyone. Just a body to use to relieve the pressure of the straining emptiness; just a body to share the buzz with, even if they had no clue as to why his brain was buzzing. 

That was why Harry was so _useful_. 

Though, perhaps, it had gone beyond mere usefulness by now. What had started as a fleeting romance, a passion of the moment was not that anymore. Harry had been there when Tom had needed satisfaction; when the static had started screaming and the thrill had been scratching at his stomach for an hour too long. All he’d been was a body. But such transitory meetings had mutated into the sort of dedication Tom had promised himself he’d never become so confined by. His attachment to Harry was surely a liability, a weakness that he should have risen above. But Harry was also the only one that Tom couldn’t bring himself to crush. 

Even though that made him weak. 

Harry didn’t even know the things he did, let alone partake in them; all _he_ saw were the smiles, so gleaming and glittery and glamorous. Harry did not realise that behind that smile, there was nothing. Behind the diamonds that crowned his smile, there nothing but a void. An emptiness that stretched so far that he almost feared it would never stop expanding, swallowing everything he saw, and everything he was until there was nothing of substance left at all. 

He did not realise the thing that he loved was nothing more than a façade, and the man he loved was no more than a man in a mask. Though that mask was sewn into Tom’s real face now, the stitching so deep that he could never pull it off, no matter how much he wanted to show Harry the monstrous things that lay behind it. 

And he wanted to show him, so _very_ badly. 

Tom wanted Harry to see him, the real him. He wanted him to stare into the gaps of his life and see that there were monsters snaking their way into every crack. Tom wanted Harry to hate him. Because hate was so much easier than love. Hate was a gorgeous reason to get rid of him, to rip him out of his heart, because that was the only way to get rid of a tumour.

But Harry was just too sweet. 

Too adoring. 

_Too lovely._

To crush until he choked. 

But that didn’t mean Tom didn’t want to crush him. That didn’t mean Tom didn’t _think_ about doing it all the time. Just the thought of having Harry on his back, the wood of the floor digging into his spine, and just pressing his shoe down on his neck. 

Just pressing.

And pressing.

And pressing.

Tom knew the face he would make, the smile that he would show the second before that pretty little neck snapped. He knew every perfect detail because he thought about it.

Every.

Single. 

Night. 

Instead, he had to satisfy himself with asphyxia. With curling his fingers around Harry’s throat, moulding them to his tendons and muscles and bones, and squeezing; just _squeezing_ until he got his bliss. And only for a second, Tom could be suspended, on the edge of killing the thing, he loved the most, for what felt like an eternity. For a while, he could be caught like a fish on a line, between temptation and control. 

Control won over.

It always did. 

But there would come a day when it wouldn’t. When the temptation to hear Harry’s ribs splintering and his throat collapsing and his body giving up, simply became too much to bear. Soon, Harry would spot a crack, he was too close not to, and as soon as he did, then he would see that those nasty things that lurked inside Tom’s head did not align themselves to his golden vision of reality.

Tom would wait until he had no choice. 

Until the last possible second.

And then he would crush Harry too.

Because while it had started with walnuts, it would be ending with Harry.


End file.
